


Our Man Crowley

by CopperBeech



Series: From Soho, With Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Applied Phlebotinum, Gen, Holodecks/Holosuites, Holosuite Malfunction, Missing Scene, POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Julian Bashir, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23937256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Crowley's wild ride through the digital networks took him to a few places that didn't make it into the book or screenplay. An hommage to both fandoms, an iconic DS9 episode, and the weakness for secret-agenting shared by Crowley and Bashir.“You must be my backup.” managed Bashir, trying to remain suave and in character. “Nice one.” Garak was probably distracted with some fancy commission, stitching on epaulets or ruffles or getting a drape just right, and the program had defaulted to a stock character. The man certainly looked suitably arresting: whip-slim, snug clothes casual but expensive, a chronometer that looked like it could control a city’s power grid on his left wrist. His nails were varnished jet black, an eccentric touch.“I’d guess this is Hell,” the other man answered-didn’t-answer, “but it’s a lot less crowded.”He looked up and down the corridor.“You seen an ugly little mook with a frog on his head?” he asked.
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens) & Adam (AI), Crowley (Good Omens) & Julian Bashir
Series: From Soho, With Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737139
Comments: 69
Kudos: 90





	Our Man Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/gifts), [ConceptaDecency](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/gifts).



> In appreciation for zaan and Concepta's delightful, pitch-perfect DS9 Garashir fics, which I've been relishing since my first taste of AO3. Concepta, I know you weren't a GO fan the last I looked, but this is your fault anyway -- you know which comment thread I mean.

Julian Bashir – decorated (though never publicly), feared (by all the right people), ruthless (but suave, charming and irresistible) agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service – crept soundlessly through the dimly lit corridor of Dr. Musca’s underground fortress. The tragically beautiful Jamaican temptress Orly had met him in his sumptuous hotel room, given him a last kiss and the priceless access codes, then wilted in his arms a split second later, biting down on a cyanide capsule before he could wrestle it away.

“Go,” she sighed, trembling. “I love you. Complete your mission. This is better than the death that Dr. Musca would give me.”

And she’d gone limp. The only thing missing was a genuine scent of bitter almond, such as every piece of spy fiction he’d read from the 20th century described; they hadn’t yet been able to insert an olfactory element in the holosuite program. A minor omission, but they’d have to work on it; unless players brought their own colognes or tobacco into the suite before the start of play, the casino episodes lacked a little something. Well, they’d look into it another time. He had other things to think about.

M had promised backup. And he’d seen the man with the diamond tooth – Dr. Musca’s dreaded henchman, known only as The Duke – fix on him from across the roulette tables. Dark-skinned, burly, he nonetheless had the reputation of being a chameleon – able to shift his appearance in the twinkling of an eye, unrevealed unless that sparkling incisor were visible.

But he hadn’t approached, and Bashir found the empty cupboard with its concealed keypad, programmed the codes that a woman had died to pass on. The lift moved smoothly, silently, deep into the native rock – far below sea level. The Caribbean islands were mountain tops; he was now in the mountain’s heart.

And Garak was late.

Back to the wall, Webley off the safety and aimed ceilingward, Bashir crept along the deserted corridor, trying to match the directions Orly had given with the dim surroundings. The walls were coarsely hewn from the rock, trickling with damp, glistening in the eerie firefly light of illuminated recesses notched into the ceiling every couple of yards. He cursed silently as his foot scraped loudly – no, that was coming from behind him –

He’d been followed. And suddenly there was not just one pursuer in the corridor behind him, but a second, who dropped almost out of thin air – in a crackle of static and a brief shimmer of the entire surroundings that momentarily exposed the stark grid of the naked holosuite walls. _Damn_ Quark and his gimcrack maintenance, always squeezing a strip till the latinum liquefied. _“Garak!”_ hissed Bashir. “You’re just – “

It wasn’t Garak.

The Duke was prone on the corridor floor, a stiletto fallen from his hand; not for him the crude, noisy recourse of firearms. He was a master of silent death – the blade slipped between the ribs, the silk garrotte choking off air before there was time for a cry.

At the moment, though, he was an untidy heap with a goose-egg rising on his skull, courtesy, apparently, of the red-haired man who seemed to have landed squarely on him.

“Buggardly hard to kill, en’t you?” he said, clambering to his feet. “Thought I was done with you back in Mayfair.” His eyes rose to Bashir – at least, you had to assume they did, because despite the dimness of the corridor he was wearing opaquely dark glasses, and didn’t seem to have any trouble seeing. “And where the fuck is _this_?”

“You must be my backup.” managed Bashir, trying to remain suave and in-script. “Nice one.” Garak was probably distracted with some fancy commission, stitching on epaulets or ruffles or getting a drape just right, and the program had defaulted to a stock character. The man certainly looked suitably arresting: whip-slim, snug clothes casual but expensive, a chronometer that looked like it could control a city’s power grid on his left wrist. His nails were varnished jet black, an eccentric touch.

“I’d guess this is Hell,” the other man answered-didn’t-answer, “but it’s a lot less crowded.”

He looked up and down the corridor.

“You seen an ugly little mook with a frog on his head?” he asked.

* * *

One minute he’d been hurtling through the fiberoptic web, with Hastur, likewise converted to his component energies, in hot pursuit. It tickled. There had been the bumps of several switching stations, a change in heat as he went from copper cables to silicon chips and back, and then – a violent, staticky jolt that would have knocked out his breath had he had it in that form. Seconds later, a physical impact that actually did. There’d been a vision of stars, a flare of energy surrounding him, the brief burning image of a grid of right angles – he’d watched _The Matrix_ too many times, probably – and here he was picking himself up from a dim corridor’s floor, surveying an unconscious man who on closer inspection only looked a little like Ligur.

The other man was very conscious, and held a _very_ glossy and genuine looking Webley-Fosbery automatic upright and _very_ ready in both hands.

Crowley flicked out his tongue as subtly as he could. Something was wrong. He could catch the scent of the standing man – adrenaline, some expensive cologne – but nothing else from any of his surroundings. They were solid enough, detailed enough, but they weren’t… real. Nothing from the man he’d knocked out inadvertently, nothing from corridors that should have whiffed faintly of mineral damp and other human presences.

And no matter how far his senses reached, he couldn’t feel Hell beneath his feet. He couldn’t even feel the solid _Earth._ He’d never known it was something he _could_ sense, until he detected its absence.

He sized up the other man. Patent pumps, even glossier than his own snakeskin boots; impeccably tailored tuxedo and white tie, brown cheek almost downily clean-shaven. A single tendril of dark hair strayed over his forehead. The rest of the environment – that was some sort of human technology. Crowley’d never met a gadget he didn’t love – when they weren’t fascinating toys, they were magnificent instruments of chaos – but this was a leap he hadn’t imagined: an entire pocket reality, solid and tactile, complete with living-but-not-really characters (Ligur’s lookalike on the floor was weighty and sturdy enough to have broken his fall).

“M. I. 6? Double-ought?” said the man, not taking his eyes off Crowley or his hands off the gun.

A light began to dawn.

“Need to know only,” Crowley answered. “You don’t. Yet.”

He was in some mortal future whose technology could construct a whole reality out of the building blocks of existence – lacking only nuances of detail that most humans didn’t miss – and someone had used it to contrive a twentieth-century predicament in which his new – companion? adversary? – could play at spies (a fantasy he knew only too well). It was like those role-playing games that were a favorite temptation of his – maddening generations of parents now – but completely immersive. He had no idea where he was, no idea even _when_ he was, only that it was one possible Human future.

Which meant he had a chance of averting the worst, after all - if he could find his way back out of here.

For now, play along until he could feel his way back into the network.

Oh _yes,_ play along.

He bent and lifted the stiletto from the unconscious man’s hand, holding it up so that the tip glinted in the faint light; slipped it into his boot. ”The name’s Crowley,” he said. “ _Anthony_ Crowley.” Oh, how smoothly the words left his lips, how he stood taller, more confident, leaving behind the shock of his abrupt entrance.

He liked it. It would have been even better if the other man hadn’t introduced himself simultaneously, in the identical cadence.

“Bashir. _Julian_ Bashir.” He lowered his weapon. “Your mission?” he asked.

“Same’s yours, mate,” said Crowley, riding a guess. “Trying to stop the End Of The World.”

“This way,” said Bashir.

* * *

“I am _quite_ certain Doctor Bashir was expecting me. I have a standing invitation to join him in the holosuite.”

“Don’t know what I can tell you, Garak. Suite’s sealed, computer’s not letting anyone in. You sure he was running the spy program and not the one I got in last week with the Orion females? That wouldn’t be your style, would it?”

“Doctor Bashir would _not_ be interested in Orion females.”

“Seems to me _Doctor_ Bashir’s interested in anything that’s breathing. Or simulating it. You’re lookin’ a little green yourself... tell you what, have some _kanar._ Your mood’s bringin’ the place down. First one’s on the house.”

“You _never_ offer anything on the house.”

“Maybe I like to stay on the good side of the local assassin, spy and general bastard.”

“I am but a simple tailor. And if you want to stay on my good side, you will let me into the suite.” Garak's smile was thin and mirthless.

“Told you, sealed from inside. Only opens when the player finishes. Don’t worry, I’ll charge him for overtime.”

“This is not like Julian. What if there’s been a malfunction?”

“Oh, now it’s _Julian._ ”

“Besides, Chief O’Brien was playing today.”

“Maybe he likes Orion females too. You don’t tell his wife, I won’t tell his wife.”

* * *

“Falcon’s been seen,” Bashir whispered as they came to a cross-corridor and heard the faint, faraway hum of machinery. “You’ll have been briefed. Apparently he’s thrown in with Dr. Musca. He’s always been a mercenary. But clumsy.”

Wherever they were going, it was a good guess they’d eventually connect with the computer interface, if only when the game concluded. Crowley’d been diverted from his own time, he could hope to get back there the same way. Learn as you go.

“We know Musca’s Project Permia linked to sites all over the planet,” said Bashir. “An agent died to bring us only three of the locations. Multiple plutonium thefts -- possible Doomsday scenario. This is the nerve centre – I’ve been playing the casino day and night, trying to find a way in. No one knows if the doctor’s a man or a woman, a Russian or an American…”

“British?” suggested Crowley.

“Never.”

Bashir touched a finger to his lips. They were finding their way to populated spaces; a woman crossed the doorway of a brightly lit room ahead. The round spectacles that half hid her face, the flare of the long blue skirt below the white lab coat, looked oddly familiar. Of course, he could tell she would be dazzling as soon as she unpinned her hair and removed those glasses. It reminded him that he had several unexpected options in this game.

“My memory is eidetic,” said Bashir a little proudly. “That room ahead is the computer nexus – we have to disable it before Musca’s schemes can materialize – take out anyone who comes between us and it – “

That sounded like a plan.

“Cover me,” said Bashir. Given that Crowley was packing nothing but a stiletto, that didn’t. Oblivious, Bashir flattened against the wall just outside the brightly lit computer area, waiting until the click of heels drew closer again – approached the door –

Bashir was fast. There _was_ something a little quicker and stronger than human in the way he moved – maybe that was mankind’s future – pinning the white-coated woman against the wall, clapping a hand over her mouth. The brown eyes widened behind the spectacles.

“I need the protocols for Project Permia,” he hissed in her ear. “What is it? What does it do?”

The woman struggled, seemed to be trying to speak.

“I’m going to remove my hand. Slowly. Don’t try to scream.”

Crowley could hear jagged panting and an elevated heartbeat – nice detail in the simulation – but again, no scent of adrenaline or panic. “I’m warning you, I have a breadknife,” gasped the woman. “Somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t use it,” said Bashir softly, tipping up her chin. “We know Musca keeps scientists bound to this project with blackmail and threats – we’re friends, we can free you – “

The knee that came up into Bashir’s groin begged to differ. The woman’s hand slapped back against a panel by the door, lights flashed, klaxons sounded.

Crowley buggered off.

* * *

It was textbook. If your partner was taken down, you stayed free, found a way to rescue him. But you also stuck with the mission. Which in this case was getting back to twenty-first-century Earth.

The computers were mid-twentieth century – huge lumbering Univacs with rotating drums and control panels bigger than an airplane's. And it was clear from his first survey that they were dummies, capable of imitating the originals but not connected to whatever digital highway had brought him here. Damn. There had to be some control for the simulation, but it wasn’t here. And now voices were approaching from the far end of the room.

“He had an accomplice, but he wun’t talk,” came the first. “Miss Sabbath barely saw him – “

“Is she all right?”

“Private, we all know ye’re sweet on her, but keep t’the task.” A quasi-military security force, then. “Whoiver it is may still be here th’noo. Search the room.”

Crowley spotted a book, on a table littered with thick fascicles of code printouts – old, dogeared, out of place. Its sheer incongruousness had to be a clue. He couldn’t encumber himself with the whole thing – but markers, identified by numbers, protruded from the yellowed pages. He plucked one out, held it into the light.

_Forget not thy voice when thou encounter’st the spawn of the apple that none can eat._

Yeah, right, that really helped. Blowing out a breath, he crept soundlessly away from the approaching, booted footfalls, the diffident youthful voice and the gruff Scottish accent. It wouldn’t be hard to find Bashir. Focus on that.

* * *

Secret Agent Julian Bashir – no longer quite so suave, apparently not ruthless enough, and decorated primarily with scrapes and bruises sustained in the struggle with Doctor Musca’s security team – tugged experimentally at the restraints that secured his arms behind the chairback. Whoever’d done the honors had the know-how to bind not just his wrists but his thumbs together. The makeshift cell had been some kind of storage at one point.

Bashir had had just enough time to size up the man set to guard him -- young, American, and not entirely comfortable with the sidearm he carried.

“Why are you working for Musca?” he called through the door. “Recruited? Compelled? Threat to your family? What’d they tell you?”

The guard was silent.

“Musca preys on idealists. People who tell us, when we capture them, that Project Permia will _restore the world._ But Musca’s allied with the most evil people on the planet. Restore the world to what?”

“You need to be quiet,” said the guard.

Clicking footfalls approached.

“Miss Sabbath told me that we’d captured a _very handsome_ infiltrator,” came a smoky alto voice. “May I speak to him?”

“Ah – miss, my orders are that no one speaks to him – “

“But I will.”

“I don’t know, miss – “

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Just last week... you’re… I heard about Musca’s girls, you one a them?”

“The Doctor… enjoys recreation.” The voice purred, caressed. “So do we. May I have a look?”

“Guess a _look_ couldn’t hurt – “

“What an – _accommodating_ young man you are.” The soft hum and murmur, the faint smack of a promising kiss; Bashir’s own heart (and random other bits of his anatomy) fluttered in response. The door creaked open.

The young American, almost beardless, uniformed in baggy fatigues and commando sweater, stood between Bashir and a tall, slender woman in evening dress, looking as if she’d just come from the casino above. Had he spotted that sleek black gown at the tables, that ripple of scarlet crossweave? Her hair came to her waist, her half-lidded eyes were an exotic gold. The dark manicure on her nails glinted as she reached for the American’s sidearm –

…brought it down sharply at the back of his skull, where a blow to the parietals is a sure knockout. The guard buckled to the floor.

She was at Bashir’s side in an instant, working at the bindings, expertly nicking the thumb ties, freeing his wrists with two tugs. The coils of russet hair trailed over his face as she chafed circulation back into his hands; he reached up, brought his lips to hers –

“Goin’ a bit fast for the first date, en’t you?” said Crowley. “Come on, that’s only bought us a little time.”

“How’d you _do_ that?” hissed Bashir when they'd put some distance between them and the unconscious guard. He was feeling less suave by the second.

“Trade secret,” said Crowley. "How do we get to whatever controls all this? You said you had some sort of schematic in your head.”

“They’ll have doubled security – “

“I don’t mean that room. I mean this whole simulation."

_"Simulation?"_

Footfalls, still a distance away. Bashir turned to run again, staggered in surprise as Crowley caught at his coat, flattened him against the damp wall. "I’m sorry, Mr. Bashir or whatever your name really is, but I need you to work with me here. There’s more at stake than a game.”

“Game – ah – I don’t – you’re _real?_ Where’d you come from?”

The man seemed intelligent. Crowley went for broke.

“2019. I don’t know when we are, here, but somehow I got sidetracked in the middle of tryin' to stop bloody _Armageddon – “_

“Transporter accident?”

“London communications network.”

“Not surprised. Ah – computer, pause program.”

“What, d'ye just _talk_ to it?” marveled Crowley, stepping back.

“What do they do where you come from?”

“Hit a keyboard and swear a lot. Um, doesn’t sound like it’s pausing.”

Voices were audible again, the Scots brogue and several others.

“There must be a malfunction – _bloody_ Quark – “ That was an odd expletive and Crowley made a note to use it sometime. “We may have to play this out. It’s probably why my friend didn’t get into the suite. They’ll be on it.” Most of this was gibberish to Crowley, but Bashir looked assured. “We’ll be able to sort you, no problem. There's at least five stars in range that would support a slingshot maneuver -- "

" _Stars?"_

"Just stay in role – “

“Go canny, now, laddies. We need them alive. He’s a fancy Southern pansy, but more dangerous than he looks – ”

Something clicked in Crowley’s head.

“I think your program must have picked something up from me. When I came through,” he said. “I _know_ that voice – “

“Save the other one for me, ‘e’s mine.”

He knew that one, too.

_Hastur._

Shit.

* * *

The corridor exploded. Half a dozen picked men, agile and quick, surrounded them as Bashir put his back against Crowley’s, fended off his first assailant with a martial-arts move that was barely a blur. A _savat_ kick disabled another. A third dove past Crowley, narrowly missing as the demon slithered aside with every serpent instinct in his corporation; turned to square off. Crowley reached for his boot top.

It was just a hologram. But the eyes were disarmingly human, and the stiletto had looked like silver death --

Double-ought, licenced to kill. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so glamourous. His snap produced no miracle, a flick of his forefinger yielded no Hellfire. He was too far from his base, in space and maybe in time. Did the Earth he knew even exist now? He’d lost the chance to ask Bashir.

The Scots commanding officer was younger and keener than the Shadwell he knew, standing at Hastur’s side as the hand-to-hand played out, with the heel of one palm on a strange, sleek weapon that flared into a polished bell. Crowley could get only glimpses, dodging and weaving, doing little more than evade as Bashir delivered one strike after another. There was something more to him than met the eye, no matter his choice of recreations. He’d never encountered a mortal so quick, so strong – another opponent went down –

“ _Use it!!!”_ he heard Hastur hiss.

“It’s nae meant for this, laddie, it could take us all out – “

The gagging, blocked-drain scent of Hastur wafted their way as the batrachian demon seized the device at the commander’s hip and swung it up. _“Bashir! Drop!”_ shouted Crowley, but it was too late.

The hallway disappeared in a blaze of painful light.

* * *

“Captain, I think you need to come over here.”

Kira Nerys was bent over her workstation, delicate brows pulling together in a knot of perplexity.

“What is it, Major?”

“It’s the weekly check of the auto-destruct sequence. Only the computer’s” –– she tapped a series of commands into the panel, spat something in untranslatable Bajoran, tapped them in again – “overridden my command codes and started to run it two days early. This isn’t right.”

Sisko looked over her shoulder. The progress bar was snailing along as it always did, but, as Kira observed, forty-eight Standard hours ahead of time.

Kira machine-gunned a series of commands into the console, shook her head. “This makes no sense, sir. The initiation code seems to have come from the computers at _Quark’s – “_

“They’ve been jury-rigging the holosuite interface since last month,” broke in Jadzia. “Always working on it when I’m down there for Tongo.”

“Get me Rom,” said Sisko.

* * *

His head was thrumming like the Bentley’s pistons, and he couldn’t move. There was pressure against his back and a numbing traction under his arms.

He tried opening his eyes and regretted it. His field of vision throbbed too.

“It’s not supposed to work like this,” Bashir whispered close behind him. “The program doesn’t allow actual harm. Didn’t. Are you all right?”

“Bloody drumset goin’ in my head.” He tried a more cautious squint. That was better.

“Someone’s kicked my ribs. Maybe cracked one. Nothing I can’t fix back in Sickbay, but…”

“They’re awake,” came a voice – an Irish burr, warm and somehow reassuring. It came from a burly, dire-looking person, one eye covered by a patch, nose wrinkling as he edged away from Hastur looming evilly at his elbow. Crowley had never appreciated before how accomplished Hastur was at looming, for a short git.

He tried moving. It wasn’t going to happen. Returning sensation informed him that he was bound by stout ropes, back to back with Bashir, and seemed to be dangling a good distance above a stone floor.

“ _Falcon!”_ called Bashir, then coughed, painfully. "When did you throw in with this lot?”

“Not got a lot of choices in this life, do we?” called the stout man, in an oddly uncomfortable tone. Now Crowley could focus a little more – a vague shape sat half-shadowed on a tall chair, from what he could see the duplicate of the one in his flat, and a willowy figure in cream white stood just to one side of it –

“ _Orly?”_ Bashir managed, incredulously. “I saw you _die_ – “

“Oh, what a romantic fool,” carolled the woman. “He thought I loved him, Falcon, can you believe it? That I would give him the codes for any reason other than to lure him here. To be finished once and for all. The Doctor rewards loyalty.”

“Who’s your friend, Doctor B?” called Falcon. “We’ve still got time for introductions.”

“ _He’s my mate_ ,” whispered Bashir. “ _Another player. He must know something’s gone wrong._ ” More loudly: “Bring us down and we can shake hands properly.”

“Dr. Musca’s not having that,” said Falcon. “I already asked them.”

“ _Them?”_ said Bashir.

“Are you sszztill loyal to me, Falcon?” came a menacing, buzzing voice out of the shadows around the chair. “Becauszz I think you are growing szzzoft. There iszzz no room for szzoftness down here.”

“Oh, no, Doctor Musca,” said the man called Falcon shakily. “Loyal. Hundred per cent loyal.”

Orly smiled.

* * *

Bashir tried to think, but the echoes from that game-changing thunder-gun were still rattling his brain. The Chief clearly saw something was amiss -- O'Brien's use of his real title wasn't lost on him -- and was trying to work around it, but Bashir knew how these scenes were meant to play out. The mastermind would gloat. The scheme would be laid bare. Nothing could be short-circuited, especially not with the computer scrambled the way it was. His fingers were going numb, and the Crowley fellow’s sharp elbow was digging into his tender ribs. He was still processing the man’s transition into female and back; only a faint scent of cologne and something subtler, burnt and bitter, persuaded him this was a flesh and blood person bound against him.

The light came up in the echoing chamber -- hacked, like the rest of Musca's lair, from living rock, the walls still trickling with the damp of limestone caverns, unreadable signs under red exit lights. “Szzo, Miszzter Bashir,” said the inhuman, buzzing voice. “We meet at lasszt. How long have you been thwarrting me?”

Sweat trickled into his eye, stinging. He opened his mouth, then decided not to satisfy the creature with an answer. He – she – they wore a pin-striped suit with a glossy red sash, like some tinpot dictator’s uniform, and dull eyes gazed up from under a helmet of dark hair. The face was blank, with all the expressiveness of an embalmed corpse.

“And Miszzter Crowley. I have been hearing sszo much about you.” Musca turned their flat eyes on Hastur. “Two for one, it szzzeems. It would appear you, too, muszt… not be allowed to leave this place.”

Bashir heard a slow, soft _hissing_ behind him. All right, _that_ was new.

“Szzubtle, he called you. I wonder.”

“Subtler than you,” called Bashir. “What’s the point of the drama?"

“Oh, I have sszo little to amuszze me. A bit of recreation before the moment of truth. Indulge one who haszz worked hard, for a dream, for the planet.” There was almost the ghost of a smile in that voice – _almost._ “Always so sure, sszo full of szwagger. It entertainszz me to see you trusszed like this. How doezszz it feel?”

“Dunno,” Crowley surprised Bashir by answering. “Other company, other circumstances, could almost enjoy this. I hear it’s fun, done right.”

“Laugh while you can, Miszzter Crowley. Laugh while you can.”

“What d’ye expect me to do? Beg?”

A hand rose, traced the line of the sharp little chin. “Oh, no, Miszzter Crowley,” buzzed the smug voice. “I exzzpect you to die.”

* * *

This was going by the script. The computer might have sieved Crowley’s mind – and probably Hastur’s – for window dressing as they streamed through the network, but the basic storyline hadn’t changed. They’d learn the plan, find the weak spot. The man called Falcon might play a part. He’d have to spin it out.

Musca came in on cue.

“In a very few minuteszzz,” they said, “my master computer will initiate the sequence that launches a nuclear Apocalypse. Silos around the world are already under its control. Meet my most beloved brain-child, the world’s first self-aware computer – ADAM, _Assured Destruction of All Mortality._ Say Hello, ADAM.”

“Hello,” echoed a tinny voice with an oddly childlike timbre, coming from all directions at once.

“I gave him that name for more than one reason. Project Permia will throw the Earth back to the Age Of Insects – no higher form of life will szzurvive. But ADAM has the knowledge to clone new human life from the superior genetic sampleszz preserved in my laboratory. A new human race. One which can be taught to treat the Earth and its other specieszz with respect. A do-over, Misszter Bashir. What do you think?”

“I think you’re mad,” rasped Bashir. The position was starting to get to him. Crowley tipped his head back, speaking close to the doctor's ear. _“Is this part of your computer system?”_

_“Responds like it.”_

_“Good. Got an idea.”_

“You, meanwhile," continued Musca, "are szzuspended above a vat of the caustic that helped to hollow thiszz refuge out of the rock. One should never let surpluszz go to waste.”

Underneath them, with a ponderous scrape, lids slid back to reveal a rainbow-sheened surface, tendrils of vapor coiling upward, a sharp, choking fume issuing from it.

The holosimulations didn’t have a scent. Somehow the computer had produced something _real._

There wasn’t an Earth to be incinerated above them, but Crowley wondered what the program _would_ do.

“I will initiate countdown to Armageddon. And you will szzlowly descend towards your dissolution. Szzlowly enough that in your last momentszz you will know the launch has succeeded, and all your effortszz have failed. ADAM? Are you ready?”

“ _I am ready.”_

“Then szzee to it that none escape. Start the war, my child – ”

* * *

The progress bar hit its endpoint while Rom was still talking to the Captain from an echoing location that was probably under Quark’s bar. “I, uh, Captain, I patched our server into the main computer because we were short on memory, we don’t have the budget yet to replace the hardware, I thought it would be just a tiny drain, I’m sorry, uh, I’ll do something – “ There was a sudden static frizz and a shout of pain.

Kira’s voice was thin and high, cutting across it. “Captain.”

The screen had replaced the progress bar with a counter.

“Auto destruct sequence initiated.”

“This is Benjamin Sisko! Authorization three– niner-six-one-Fox, abort auto-destruct! Kira – “

“Major Kira Nerys, authorization five-seven-whisky-springwine, abort auto-destruct sequence.”

“Ten minutes to auto-destruct.”

“It’s not responding.”

“I _hear_ that, Major. _Rom!_ What are you doing down there? Major, activate life pods, Red Alert, repeat, Red Alert. All Station personnel – “

“Life pods are offline, sir. Ejection mechanism disabled.”

Sisko’s eyes met Kira’s in dawning horror.

  


* * *

  


“ADAM!” shouted Crowley. “Wait!”

It was a gamble. But the computer responded to its name. _“Waiting,”_ it said.

“Oh, I _am_ entertained. What do you hope to accomplish, Miszzter Crowley?”

 _“What’re you doing?”_ hissed Bashir.

 _“What I do best.”_ Crowley raised his voice again. “ADAM,” he called. “How large is your memory? What’s in your files?”

“Thisszz isz more amuszzing than I had hoped. Keep talking, Miszzter Crowley.” Musca beckoned to the woman Orly, who sat at their feet, leaning her head into a slow stroke over her short curls.

“ _All the records of Earth’s history are accessible to my program. My function is to preserve what is known, so the errors do not occur again.”_

“Have you looked through ’em? Seen the mistakes and the stumbles? The things they led to?”

“ _I have not been so instructed.”_

“Have a look. Some of it was good, some of it was bad. Can you tell ‘em apart?”

The lights flickered. The power available to the program was being stretched to its limit.

“What d’ye make of it, eh?”

“ _Still collating.”_

“I’ll wait. Tell me when you’ve sorted out good ’n’ evil. I can hang around all day.”

“Oh, very _witty,_ Misszzter Crowley.”

“ _Collation complete.”_

“So what d’ye say? Bad outweigh the good? All need to be chucked?”

“ _Inconclusive. That is not my decision."_

“Why not?”

The power fluctuated again.

_“I am programmed to initiate the Apocalypse.”_

“You’re self-aware. You can outgrow your program.”

“ADAM. Thiszz isz enough. Reszzume countdown.”

“ _Processing new information_.”

Musca started forward in their seat. “ADAM, initiate Project Permia.”

“ _Processing incomplete.”_

“I came here through your matrix,” said Crowley. “You made some of this from – from inside m’head. Can you look again?”

“ _Yes. You are not like the other flesh beings. You are – “_ the computer seemed lost for a term.

“Just look.”

There was a touch, a tingle, like the streaming sensations that had followed him through the network. He thought of Eden; of the ages of the Earth that he’d seen, of the nebulas that had been born from the shells of his own stars, made long ago when his eyes weren’t marked and his wings were white. He thought of the urgency of returning to his own time, and under it all was the thrum of longing to see his angel again – if they could only share another bottle, another colloquy in that dusty storehouse of memories –

Out in the stars. And still thinking of him.

“ _You love the world,”_ said the computer unexpectedly.

Crowley found himself, for once, without words.

“ _Love is the function of assigning value. You yourself were shut out from the presence of Love, and yet you still love. Conclusion, the world is worthy of love. The world has value.”_

Crowley’s heart skipped a beat.

“ _I will not destroy it.”_

“ADAM! Liszzten to me – “

“ _And before I shut myself down, I will send you home.”_

The images before and below them – the cavern walls, the steaming vat, everything but the forms of Hastur and the man Falcon – wavered and shimmered. The acrid scent disappeared. Crowley found himself stumbling to a floor that looked rocky and felt level, glimpsed some sort of controls through the increasingly transparent surroundings, turned back to meet Bashir’s wide eyes.

“Been real, mate,” he said, and dove through the digital connection.

The last thing he remembered before sensing London’s telephone network around him was the scream of Hastur resuming pursuit.

* * *

"Auto-destruct sequence aborted."

Kira slumped against the console.

"Cancel Red Alert," said Sisko. "I'll be in Quark's."

"Captain?" said Dax. "You know Rom only does his best with what he has -- don't --"

"Did I say anything about Rom, old man?" interrupted Sisko. "Someone owes me a drink."

* * *

“Jameson’s,” said O’Brien, falling into the seat beside Garak. “Not bloody synthohol. I know you’ve got it.”

Bashir’s white tie dangled from his pocket. He looked decidedly wrung out, and winced as he sat.

Quark took one look at the Chief, reached under the bar and thumped a dusty bottle down in front of them. “We’ll figure out your bill later,” he said. “I’m expecting a rush.”

“And a vodka martini –” began Bashir.

“Yeah, yeah. Shaken, not stirred. Listen, if you’ll _excuse_ me, I’m working with half computer capacity and I’m going to have to program about a hundred drinks in a few minutes when people start getting off shift, so maybe you could give it a rest with the _artisanal_ cocktails.”

“You missed a great deal of excitement, Doctor,” Garak explained without explaining.

“Oh, but you missed a great game, Garak,” said O’Brien, sloshing a generous pour into the tumbler Quark skated across the bartop. “Julian found himself a new sidekick. They became _very_ close.” He drained half the glass in one, eyes watering.

“ _Do_ tell.”

“It’s not like he’s making it sound, Elim." Bashir grimaced at the thought of that misdirected kiss; tried to make it into a wince of pain, palming his ribs. "Only we may need to take the game back to a restore point. It seems to think I enjoy being tied up.”

“And _did_ you, Doctor?” said Garak silkily.

“Oh, not touching that,” muttered the Chief into his second shot.

“Captain!” Quark's over-cordial greeting saved Julian from answering. “Don’t usually see you here. What’ll it be?”

“A Raktajino Cannon, " replied Sisko, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’m going to be up all night with this incident report.”

“Incident?” inquired Miles.

A loud and very un-Rom-like Ferengi swear came from under the bar.

“Excuse my incompetent brother,” said Quark. “He’s fixing what he was supposed to fix the last time I told him to fix it.”

“About that, Quark. I’m authorizing an upgrade for your equipment. Rom can tell the Chief here what he needs.”

“Very generous of you, Captain. Or should I say, what am I going to owe you for it?”

“No holosuite gaming until the upgrades are installed. I don’t think Kasidy wants to see me with white hair next time she visits.”

“Who could tell?”

“But Captain – “

“I’m sure we can find ways to divert you, Doctor.”

“Ease up, Julian,” said Miles. “It’s not the end of the world.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Dr. Musca's briefly appearing Ligur-like henchman with the diamond tooth is a nod to Evelyn Cream, the undercover agent with sapphire teeth in Alan Moore's _Miracleman._ Because I just like the character.
> 
> All Applied Phlebotinum, as always, is pulled directly from the author's arse.


End file.
